


rebirth

by Frenchibi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Depression, Emotion Dump, Essays, Gen, formless writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 22:12:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 10,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11907243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchibi/pseuds/Frenchibi
Summary: an explanation, of sorts, and a journey to be better.





	1. The Fire

my mind is the fire

to the phoenix of my soul

and my hope is the ashes

I burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.  
> I know this is a poor excuse for an explanation as to why I haven't been posting. Truth is... I'm not doing so hot. I don't know when I'll be back with fanfics, but I plan to be. Eventually. Bear with me. I need to take a break, I'm sorry. Maybe - ideally - I can go back to posting once a week, at some point.  
> I don't know if this little poem-thing even counts as... worthy enough to post? Worth a "work" of its own? I don't know. Maybe I can turn this into a bit of a collection for more... experimental original stuff I've done. I don't know. (I kind of... don't know anything right now?)  
> I'll be around. I still read each and every comment, and I'm immensely grateful. It's hard, these days, but I know I have to keep trying.  
> See you around.


	2. Rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems to be becoming a collection of... I don't know. Writing that has nowhere else to go.  
> Make of it what you will.

I want  _ everything. _

 

I crave change like I crave oxygen.

 

I was empty for so long - helpless and tiny, a single soul against the spiral of the universe, the endless push and pull of everyone and everything, and trying not to drown.

 

I was selfish and unkind, impatient and rude - arrogant and awful.

When you’re empty, all you can do is take, take, take.

 

I’m not empty anymore.

 

There’s a feeling, now, like a storm building. Like a new life rising from the ashes, like wind collecting leaves off the street, pulling, pulling,  _ growing- _

 

I can feel it. I’m almost there.

 

It will be glorious.

 

I’ll rage.

The splatter of rain on window panes, the howl of the wind, the thrill of the storm. I will rage, and I will conquer.

I’ll be  _ me _ again. 

 

Soon.

 

“Be patient.”

“Give me time to heal.”

 

Patience is a virtue I do not possess.

I have made so many mistakes. I want to fix them, all, now.  _ Now. _

 

“Some things need time.”

 

What if I die tomorrow?

What if the things I want to do are left undone?

Time, time.

How much time?

 

My life is acceleration. I don’t want to slow down.

Climbing, building, growing.

Learning.

 

Run. Go.  _ Do. _

 

There’s a calm before the storm.

There’s a calm, where no one knows what will happen. A thrill in the buildup, the growth, looming ominous and large.

It is now.

 

Until it hits you out of nowhere, slams into you with the force of a freight train.

 

I am the storm. I  _ will _ be back.

 

I’ll rise.

 

_ Just you wait. _

  
  
  
  


 

There’s a calm after the storm, where the world wakes and observes the destruction.

The smell of the trees after rain.

There’s beauty in the storm, and beauty in the aftermath.

From the aftermath, new life is born.


	3. Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _can you imagine...?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There's a grace too powerful to name_   
>  [[x]](https://youtu.be/KOAC5-Jcgyc)

I grew up with three siblings. We fought all the time, every day, and forgave just as frequently and instantly.

There's no room for lasting, cold anger when you're in such close proximity, when the others are the only playmates you have. You learn to let it go and move on.

 

My rage is fast and hot - and over quickly.

My disappointment is bitter, but short-lived.

 

Forgiveness is our craft.

 

The only person I can't seem to forgive is myself.


	4. Child of the Wind

It’s getting colder.

I’ve watched the tree outside my window change from green to yellow to brown, shedding, growing bare. The wind tears at its branches, day after day, and more leaves shiver and fall.

I don’t know what I’m holding on to.

There’s a vast sky above me, endless and open.

I wish I was part of it.

I want to climb mountains and shout to the world below. I want to be seen.

But as I stand out in the street, watching passing cars with the wind in my hair, my scarf, my coat, pushing me forward, I feel so  _ small. _

Maybe I am. Maybe we all are, in the end. Small.

I feel like there’s a fire inside of me, a tidal wave - or maybe it’s wind, too. Maybe that’s why fall empowers me.

I feel like my body is too small for my soul.

My heart has bled out long ago - but still it beats.

I’m still here.

Maybe I’m not rising from the ashes just yet, but I’m  _ here.  _ I’m trying, trying, trying.

Gods, I love with every fibre of my being.

I may be small, but I’m also enormous.

And I want to be free.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people have been unsubscribing, presumably for lack of fandom content - pity, because I have cool stuff coming.


	5. I talk too much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling philosophical.

A 'friend' once said to me that nothing I do is original - everything I am is a copy of someone else, I'm stealing people's ideas, interests, sayings, and all my friends only stick around because they pity me.

I try not to think about it too much, but sometimes... sometimes her words still get to me. Sometimes I wonder.

 

Is every page I write on a page from someone else's book?

If I'm staring at a blank page, is it really blank? What does 'blank' mean, anyway? Is there such a thing? A clean slate? A fresh start?

 

What's a fresh start?

If we're made of memories, why would you want that? You can't erase who you've become, you can only make new choices. If you wipe clean your slate, will you make the same mistakes again? Isn't it better to remember, to be better?

I don't think you're asking for a fresh start. You just want a new chance.

So do I.

 

Reboot? No.

Let my try again, but remember where I went wrong. Let me make it better, make it right.

 

What's right?

Whatever hurts the least for everyone involved.

But then, how do you know? How do you measure hurt?

 

Everyone's always changing. Do we really know anyone, or do we just acquire a little piece of understanding for someone in one phase of their life?

 

Does that mean there's no way for anything to last?

What's real, what stays? Can things that fade still be real? What do we place value on?

 

Don't hurt me - I'll try not to hurt you.

 

The only one who stays through every phase of your life is you. Please, by all means, love yourself. You're stuck with you. Don't be your enemy.

 

Go out and live. Change. Evolve.

Maybe you'll find people who like the way you're changing, who want to see what you become.

Not everyone will stay - but the ones who do will always be worth holding on to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Share your thoughts with me - it's the biggest gift you could give.  
> [tumblr](http://frenchibi.tumblr.com).


	6. 24 Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 525600 Minutes; how do you measure, measure a year? In daylights? In sunsets? In midnights, in cups of coffee? In inches, in miles, in laughter and strife? In 525600 minutes, how do you measure a year in the life-  
> [How about love?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvyHuse6buY)

If someone told me I only had 24 hours to live, I would not change anything.  
  
If I had exactly 24 hours, starting right now, if I knew I would die at 8:52pm tomorrow, I would not stop what I'm doing right now; writing in this document.  
I wouldn't stop talking to my sister, who is showing me memes and photographs on her phone. I wouldn't stop listening to the music I'm listening to right now to try and find something better.  
  
I wouldn't withdraw from skiing tomorrow, and ask to go home as fast as possible. I'd get up, go out, do what I'd set out to do.  
That is-  
I'd spend the morning skiing and filming my sister's ski club practice.  
On the bus ride home, I'd write the invoice I forgot to send my mom - for the sake of having it completed, and send it to her, complete with a witty comment and a smiley face.  
I'd call my dad. Probably not to set up a day for us to meet next week, in that scenario, but I'd still call him.  
I'd drive my sister home.  
I'd skype with a friend who moved away, and send snaps to everyone as I plan to go to bed.  
I'd message my friends and tell them that I love them and cherish them and appreciate everything they've done for me. Not because I knew I'd be gone, but because I've been doing this increasingly, trying to appreciate people more.  
I'd finish that painting I've been working on, and jot down the words piling up in my head.  
  
If I did all that, I'd leave without regrets.  
  
Thinking about this prompt, "what would you do if you had 24 hours left to live", I realized that... though of course there are things I've done that I regret, I don't carry that constantly. I'm not burdened by it. Of course I feel guilt when I think about it - but I have also done what I can to set things right.  
Some things take time, and if I had no more time, then... I'd go without regrets.  
  
Two days ago, I was struggling to finish a translation I was working on. It was a slow day. I only got out of bed to take out my retainer, brush my teeth and get a glass of water, and then I spent the rest of the day in bed, working and/or procrastinating. And I found myself thinking, what would 14-year-old French think, if she could see me like this?  
Here's what I think: She wouldn't understand, probably, the problems I'm facing today, because she has yet to experience events that have shaped me. But I know she wouldn't judge me for eating chocolate in bed or for watching youtube videos instead of working - because she'd do the exact same thing.  
And then I thought, what will 30-year-old French think, when she thinks back to this moment?  
I'll tell you what she'll think: Good on you, girl, you deserve to rest. You never let yourself slow down, and then you berate yourself when you need a slow day? Shut up about that. You'd never be this harsh on your friends - in fact, you'd offer to bring tea and biscuits and come and visit them to keep them company! Don't blame yourself for the days you can't bring yourself to get up out of bed unless you have to. Life your life! You live alone, and if you want to tap across your room barefoot to the kitchen for another piece of chocolate, then by all means, do so.  
I want to romanticise taking breaks, because it seems like this girl that I am, she hates them. She hates admitting that she wants to rest, she wants to be running and yelling and shining every day - but especially as the girl I am, I should understand that recharging is mandatory, not optional.  
And then - then I thought; why should French now think any different?  
And that's it. An end to self-destructive thinking. Away with it. Right now.  
  
If I knew I'd die tomorrow, I'd be disappointed at the wasted potential that I could have lived out, and I'd probably fight it.  
But if (if, say, I believed in fate) it was inevitable, I think I could go without regrets.  
And isn't that the kind of life we want? To live without carrying burdens?  
  
I will remember this prompt in the future, whenever I find myself stressing over something tiny. I'm the queen of making a mountain out of a molehill, I dramaticize, I exaggerate.  
But you know what?  
I need to not give small things so much power over me. I need - want - to get some semblance of control over this mess that I am. And don't get me wrong - I love it. I love the way I am. I just need to harness it better.  
So, from now on? I know it's easier said than done, but... I need to be done with all this whining.  
Complaining is all good fun, but it doesn't help anyone. And I don't need this negativity. So let's get better.


	7. Carry

“Look,” she says, rocking onto the soles of her feet. The bag sitting on the ground beside her is twice her size.

He looks from her to the bag, then back again. “...that’s yours?”

“M-hm.” She glances at it, then turns her head away. “I kind of don’t like looking at it. The more I do, the heavier it feels.”

He look at her scarred arms, her small frame, her bruised legs. “...how long has it been like this?”

She smiles. “‘bout seven years, give or take. It’s okay, really.”

When he looks unconvinced, she shakes her head, just a little. “Don’t worry about me. I know my way around.”

 

When he next meets her, he recognizes the baggage. He hasn’t seen her in motion, hasn’t seen how she moves it - but when she does, it’s like twenty pairs of arms are pushing her forward, each in their own way. He seems to sense their energy, for this time he doesn’t offer to help her. He still doesn’t quite understand.

“...hey, how’s it going?” she asks, sparing him a smile.

He glances to his baggage, hoping it remains clouded. “Good. You’re looking well…?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m doing better.”

“That’s good to hear.”

 

“Say,” she says, after they’ve walked side by side for a good while. “There’s this thing - I might not be able to carry by myself. Would you mind lending me a hand, just for a short while?”

He blinks. “You’re asking me for help?”

“...it’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” she asks with a grin. “Yeah, I’ll let you help me. Just a little. You are taller than me, after all.”

He smiles, and agrees, and can’t quite hide the pleased surprise he feels.

 

He can lift her, and her luggage, easy. He doesn’t say it. He takes what she offers, and carries it as far as she asks him to. She smiles when he hands it back.

“Thank you.”

 

She’s asking more often, now. Just small things, and when he looks at all she’s carrying, he wonders if she sees her own luggage the way he does. She moves with familiarity and routine, even laden as she is.

From time to time, she’ll hand bits off, like she’s breaking them away. Bits and pieces, to many different people. They’ll bring it back and its color will have changed. Sometimes she just stops for a quick chat, and she leaves with a new spring in her step. Weights lifted, even though they’re still there.

More often than not, she brings new baggage back to her pile - different from her own in color and shape - and weight. She lifts it like it’s nothing.

 

“I can see the obstacles in their paths,” she tells him one day. “So I take them away, or maneuver around, as best I can. They’re not heavy. It’s what any friend would do.”

He eyes her teetering pile of baggage and says nothing.

“Some people carry so  _ much,” _ she says, thoughtful. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

The world isn’t fair, he wants to tell her. 

You’ve got a kindness that resonates. It’s what draws people to you. You’re radiant.

He doesn’t.

 

There are days, he’s seen, where she puts down the baggage and just… stops.

She’ll stand and stare at the scenery, lost in thought, wind whipping at her hair and clothes.

She’s gotten lost often, he can tell.

He puts a hand on her shoulder, to let her know he’s still here, and he’ll help bring her back.

She always find it in her to smile.

 

“I wish I could do more,” she tells him. “Maybe I have to accept there are things I can’t change.”

She hesitates. “...I hate it. I hate that I’m small and weak and frail. So… I try not to let it stop me.”

She gives him a glance, half-hidden behind hair.. “...sometimes that’s hard on my own, though. So… thank you for helping me.”

“Anything I can do.”

 

As the days pass, he notices that his burden seems lighter, somehow. He finds himself forcing his own thoughts away less, finds himself just a little less afraid to turn around.

There’s a pair of hands there, small but firm.

She’s carrying him, too.

When his eyes widen, she gives him a smile.

“Got you. Don’t you worry. I’m right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made an amazing friend.


	8. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is... very real to me, and very fresh. Apologies in advance.

My therapist asked me, a couple sessions ago, what I was afraid of.

 

I said being forgotten - but then I realized… I don’t think I will be. I trust the people around me to remember me, even if I die today, without having accomplished anything huge, as I want to.

They would. So really, with that trust, I don’t… I’m not scared of that anymore.

 

So, he said, what  _ are  _ you afraid of?

 

Fire, I’d say - but it’s more like respect. I don’t like lighting matches. I don’t like being close to open flames. But I was fine using our stove, I was fine sitting at our fireplace. I was fine with candles at a table, as long as they were not directly in my face.

 

I’m not afraid of the dark. I dislike spiders and bugs, but I’m not afraid of them. 

 

So I concluded, surprised, “I don’t think there’s anything I’m afraid of, really. Nothing I live in fear of. I’m not alone. I’m fairly financially stable, and I have a good job. I have an apartment. I’m safe.”

I’m privileged.

 

But that’s not what this is about.

This is about fear.

 

I’m not afraid often, so I tend not to consider this emotion. Nervous, yes. Scared? No. I forget fear exists.

Until I feel it.

  
  


Two days ago, a man followed me home from the subway at night.

And I was terrified.

 

My phone was dead. It was cold, I was wearing heels - hard to walk. Muscles already clamping up.

He seemed to keep getting closer.

When I walked up to my door, he kept walking. Passed me. Rounded a corner and was gone.

 

I got home safe, and I burst into tears - out of fear, shame, relief - I don’t know.

 

I hate the subway at night. That is… I’m afraid of it. Yes, I am. Because I’m barely 5’1, I’m small , and frail, and soft, and  _ weak. _ I might not look it immediately, but I’ve got countless illnesses and I’m worn down and tired. And when I’m alone, that terrifies me. Because there is little I have beyond my words.

 

My city is relatively safe, compared to many others. But there’s this tiny voice in my head that says “what if.”

I’d like to think that I’d step in, if I saw a woman (or anyone) being harrassed.

Truth is, I am scared stiff.

If someone had attacked   _ me  _ that night, I wouldn’t even have been able to scream. I was paralyzed with irrational, unbelievable fear. Forget helping anyone else, I couldn’t even get close. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t act. As if I didn’t exist.

 

My inner feminist is enraged. How could I not give this man walking behind me (probably someone’s husband, maybe someone’s brother, someone’s dad) the benefit of the doubt?

When I turned to enter my building, he kept walking.

But my heart wouldn’t stop racing.

 

I think this fear is largely a figment of my imagination. I’m afraid, and then I hype myself up even though it’s “perfectly safe,” statistically, logically.

Those numbers mean nothing in the face of fear.

 

My inner heroine - the one I wish was there - cowered in a corner as I hurried home that night.

The man walking behind me was probably coincidentally walking my way.

But you never know. You never know, and that terrifies me.

 

“Don’t you have pepper spray? Run, and call help!” Yes, I do. I didn’t have it on me, because my night out was spontaneous and I couldn’t go home and get it. And  _ my phone was dead. _

“You could learn self-defense?” Yes. I did. I have. No help when you can’t move.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Yes.  _ I know that. _ But my fear is still there.

 

When I mentioned to my step-dad a while back that I “don’t like coming home late with the subway in my neighborhood” he told me I was being ridiculous. He didn’t laugh at me, but he had this superior smile.

He’s the National Judo Champion in his weight class. If I had his physique, I wouldn’t be scared, either.

 

The thing is… being so scared made me feel small. Which, I know, I kind of am? But I don’t usually feel that way. I feel like the people around me don’t see me as small - they see my words, my actions, my aspirations and my accomplishments.

But like that? Out at night, alone? I’m tiny. I’m  _ easy. _ I’m just a little girl.

 

I know this won’t be a problem often. I have a car, and usually when I go out at night I use that. That day was an exception. But still, it left me shaking and crying for virtually no reason other than  _ fear. _

 

I don’t know how to deal with this.


	9. Weight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm angry today.

I defy the concept of „not beautiful enough.“

I haven’t talked much about body image, but I know way too many girls (and boys, and nb friends, but mainly girls) who continue to torture themselves to conform to an ideal of beauty that is, quite frankly, ridiculous.

My little sister (who is taller and more muscular than I am) was devastated when she found out that she weighs more than me, and it took me half an hour to explain that weight means literally nothing.

Can we just let people live?

This is such a tired topic, and just thinking about it makes me want to curl up and cry.

Just. Don’t be an asshole. Is it really that difficult?

We were rehearsing with an orchestra – and one of the players had a double bass with 5 strings. I had never seen one before, and the woman next to me and I were trying to figure out why it looked strange to us – wider. “Fatter”, I said. Another woman who overheard _immediately_ thought I was talking about the man who was playing it. Come ON. I spent 5 minutes explaining to her that that was NOT what I meant.

I’m tired of seeing friends starve themselves.

I’m tired of getting so many compliments after depression made me lose 8kg. That is not a happy weight loss, nor was it a desired one. But still, “this suits you so much better!” – fuck that.

I’m tired of hearing my dad lecture my sister about not eating ice cream because it’ll go “straight to her hips.” LET A GIRL HAVE AN ICE CREAM FOR FUCK’S SAKE??

I swear to God.

And this is only the beginning. I know girls who hate their own body so much they force themselves to go hungry, or worse, they force themselves to throw up for fear of gaining a single gram.

This needs to stop. It needs to stop now. And I will not be silent. I will call out every single instance of shaming that I encounter. Ruthlessly. Because I have had enough.


	10. Burst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is... very personal and very real. A rant. I needed to let it out.

My therapist won't let the love thing go.  
  
_"Don't you want a boyfriend?"_  
_I frown, in spite of myself._  
_"A partner," he amends, schooled to political correctness. I think he doesn't get the bi thing, but he's too smart to say "one day you'll decide what you want" - he knows that would make me lose all my respect for him. He knows I'm raging about these topics, has heard me rant and was wise enough to not interrupt with something I might not have wanted to hear. On all counts, he's perfectly professional - I'm just starting to see through him. I haven't unpacked the pan package in front of him, because I don't have the energy to explain. Not that it matters, really. We're here to talk about my depression, not my lack of love life._  
  
_...okay. Phrased like that, I can see how it seems like there's a correlation._  
  
_"I'm not looking," I tell him, like I have last time. And the time before._  
_He can tell I'm uncomfortable. "I know you don't like talking about this."_  
_I lean back, and smile. Change it up. He seems taken aback._  
"I don't mind," I say. I just don't think it's relevant. I think it's wasting my time here.  
_I repeat the conclusion we reached the first time we talked about this._

 _(He stopped writing things down the third time I came to see him.)_  
  
_"I'm not opposed to having a romantic relationship. Yes, I want one. It's just not a priority. I don't feel like I need one. I don't need one single person to see me for who I truly am. I have friends who do, I have family that does. If anything, I'll start searching once I've sorted myself out."_  
_Because I don't want to hang onto one person now, that I'd only see as my "saviour". ~~Because I tried that, twice, and ruined what I had. Because no one wants or deserves the burden of my depression. Not me, not anyone else.~~_  
_Because I'm saving myself._  
_Because I'm the one who chose to go to therapy. I'm the one taking four pills every day. I'm the one who's up at night crying, and who gets out of bed the next morning and tries again._  
_Because I won't get tired of fighting for me._  
  
_Maybe there's someone out there who could love me like that. Hell, I know my friends do, they answer when I call, they listen, they offer advice as best they can. They're wonderful. But I don't always call them. Because I know they have lives, too. Because it's not fair to put it all on one card._  
  
_"What people like about relationships, I think, is that they're exclusive," my therapist tells me. "Someone who'll only listen to you."_  
_I don't like the sound of that, somehow. Because it suggests a kind of priority that I only have negative experiences with._  
_When you're in a relationship, the world doesn't disappear. If I'm in a relationship, I still have my family, I still have my friends. I'll still have choir and singing and skiing and other things I enjoy, and I know I can't expect someone else to share every single one of my interests. I'll gladly share my life, and talk about it, and listen to someone else's - but if my friend calls me at midnight, I will pick up the phone. I will still do all I can, not just exclusively for my partner._  
_I want my partner to be the same. And I honestly could not care less if that person is a guy or a girl or anything on the spectrum in between. I don't care if they wear heels and dresses or suits or jeans or sweatpants. I don't care if they're taller than me or shorter or exactly the same height. My ideal partner doesn't "look like" anyone. My ideal partner listens and tries to understand, and shares their own thoughts and feelings and stories. My ideal partner exists on a level with me, not above like a saviour or below like an admirer. Miss me with that. My ideal partner is someone I can talk to for hours or sit with in silence, and both are comfortable._  
_My ideal relationship is a friendship, too. Not some strange exclusive worshipping session._  
  
_I've sort of tuned out, for half a second as I'm thinking this, and I snap back to nod at my therapist's definition. I guess I get what he means._  
_"Sure," I say. "But I don't need an individual to tell me I'm worth listening to. I know that I am, because my friends and family do. I don't have to prove anything to anyone."_  
_"...which is why you're having trouble figuring out when to speak up, and when not to," he summarizes._  
_Yes. This is what we were actually talking about._  
  
Lately, I've been feeling heavier again. I wonder why that is.  
Actually, I don't. I know there's many reasons for it that are piling up.  
I'm tired.  
Not tired of life, by all means. I have way too many things left that I haven't done, way too many happy moments and memories to live and relive. What I'm tired of is the crying, the days that feel like I'm trying to swallow tar, the days that feel like my shoulders, my spine, my back support the weight of fifty people instead of just my own.  
Don't get me wrong - I'm happy that I've found it in me to care again. I'm just... Tired.  
You know that saying, "don't set yourself on fire to keep others warm"? Seems rational, right? Well, see - in my head, it goes more like "I'll just burn my clothes - they really need this. I can help. I want to help. I want to care. I want to do what I can."  
And suddenly I'm naked and it's fucking snowing.  
  
I want to do what I can. I always have.  
I'm just bad at seeing where the limit to that ability is.  
~~I don't want to think that I have one. I want to give, give, give, because my friends deserve my everything.~~  
  
Somewhere, I think, my therapist is still looking for a reason for my depression.  
He's come up with several theories, which I debunked in one sentence after he brought them up.  
  
My parents' divorce . My siblings, and our relationships with each other. My friends. Work. Financial issues. None of these are why I can't sleep at night.  
  
He shook his head, and almost as a last resort, asked if anyone in my family was depressed.  
Well.  
My dad has depression.  
  
So, there's your answer. It's hereditary.  
Like my allergies to everything under the sun - and the sun itself.  
Like my possible chronic infection - an autoimmune thing.  
Like the kill-me-now-please cramps I get on my period.  
Like my interest in virtually any subject under the sun.  
  
I'm okay with this answer, because it's not something I can change. Accept. Move on. Deal with it, like I do with everything else. Nothing's killed me yet.  
And you know, I'm not just saying that because it sounds cool or whatever. I mean that. I don't have the energy to give a shit about things being fair anymore - this explanation makes sense, so I'll take it. We can stop searching, doc, and work on solving. Doing what I can while the meds are (more or less) effective - which they are.  
Which is a relief. Not just because they alleviate my symptoms - because they prove I'm not "just a wimp" or "just pretending". They prove there is a chemical deficit in my brain that can be helped by an outside influence - meds. So I don't care about anything else. Make me okay again - make me be able to get up and do more than one (1) thing on a single day. Make me stop crying at 3am because I can't sleep and I can't get over how much I hate myself and feeling so pathetic.  
  
...so we're here. My lack of love life, another potential reason. Maybe hereditary isn't good enough for my therapist.  
  
He says this thing that my dad says, too - "people were meant to live in pairs."  
And all I can think is "were they?"  
Marriage as we know it is a Christian concept. (One that's thankfully, ~~finally~~ been opened up to everyone, no matter their race, religion, or gender. About fucking time.)  
Prehistoric man lived in packs, no? Groups. Families. Herds? It was safer that way.  
  
I'll agree, we're not meant to be _alone._ But I'm not alone.  
Where does this obsession of "you can only be happy if you're in an exclusive relationship with one other person" come from?  
I don't know what bugs me most - "only", "relationship", "one other person". Hell. I want more stories about a child raised in a happy polyamorous family, filled with love and far away from emotional hurt.  
Also, why relationships? Not saying I don't want one, but why is everyone waiting with bated breath until I get one? Why can't I be happy with my family and friends?  
"I'm afraid you might be turning away from relationships because you got hurt in the past."  
Bull-fucking-shit.  
If someone asked me out today, I might as well say yes.  
  
I've never been in a relationship.  
I liked one guy for 8 years, one girl for about a year and another for about six months. None of these led anywhere. I was pretty broken up about the last two. But that happens. You get up, you keep moving.  
I'm not "turning away." I don't have a Relationship Radar that I'm turning on or off. Of course I still daydream. I still kind of... want romance, or whatever. But I'm not actively seeking it out, because that's not my focus right now. I don't believe it should be the Sole Focus for anyone for their entire life. Of course, focus on your partner! Love them! Cherish them! But don't fucking push away your friends for it. Don't give yourself away for it.

I am trying to heal, not trying to get laid. If I do, cool. If I don't, cool too. That's my attitude. Why is that so hard to understand?  
I'm not saying no to romance. I'm saying yes to kicking this depression in the ass.  
Hell, maybe a relationship would help. But I'm not going to go looking for one with "this will heal my depression" in mind. It's really not that complex. That wouldn't be fair to me or to my partner.  
  
I know why I'm tired.  
I'm tired of having to explain myself.  
I'm tired of not being able to do more - lately the answer to all of my problems has been "wait". Wait for the meds to work. Wait for your friend to calm down and text you back of her own volition. Wait until you've healed. Wait, wait, wait.  
I've never been good at waiting.  
I hate seeing myself get crabby and impatient and aggressive, because that's not who I am, who I want to be. Right now, due to the chemical shitstorm in my brain and the pressure I'm under (from myself, or perceived from others), I can't help it.  
I don't like using The Depression as an excuse.  
  
My friends tell me I should take it slow, and rest.  
They know that I don't want to hear that - they know me.  
They know I'm " _a powder keg about to explode_." (Thank you, Hamilton, for words better than my own.) They know I need to accelerate to feel alive. I need to do things to keep sane. I can't "just chill". I have never been chill in my entire life. Running, fighting, yelling, doing, singing, laughing, living. That's who I am. Not this girl who has to wait to recover.  
I know all of this is about me learning to let myself rest.  
And I guess I will. I'll go to bed. I'll take my meds. I'll be good.  
But god, GOD, I'm boiling.


	11. Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depression... probably never really goes away. You just learn how to live around it.

They don't prepare you for the setbacks.  
  
They don't prepare you for how hard the climb is. How often you'll fall. How every step, every breath, every inch away from the black pit feels like an eternity.  
How you find yourself looking back at it all the time, because it's so EASY. It's everywhere. You don't even have to turn around, and you're right back to where you started. One thought. One stray idea, one unexpected comment. No matter how much you're concentrating on recovery. It's always looming right behind you, ready to drag you back.  
  
No one tells you how the tears you'll cry will feel like bricks falling off your chest. How the pressure will constrict your lungs until it bursts, and oh, how you'll break.  
No one prepares you for picking up the pieces you've scattered, over, and over, and over again.  
No one tells you that there's five million stages of broken until you are healed - if there even is such a thing.  
The slide down is so fast, so easy, I don't know when it even started, much less when the climb to the top will end. What top? Am I going where I came from, or somewhere new, somewhere different?  
  
They say healing isn't linear.  
It's not, no. But it's not just bumpy, either. It's a year-long hike, sometimes even decades. I don't know when I'll reach normal, because I've forgotten what that feels like.  
  
Every time I cry, I feel a little bit lighter. Just a little bit. But it still tears me apart, and it hurts those around me, the people I care for. I want an end to all this waiting, all this suffering, this insecurity.  
I want infinite patience, and I want to be able to handle things that aren't perfect.  
I want to learn to breathe again.  
  
Maybe I am. Maybe this is how.  
But oh, oh, it's so hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been struggling lately - but I'm not alone, and I know the dark days pass.  
> Thank you for your patience, and all the love you've sent my way.


	12. measure your life in love

How _do_ you measure how far you've come?  
Do you count days, months, years? Degrees? Money?  
  
I want to measure it in love.  
  
In the 10+ years that I've experienced romantic love and crushes, on and off. In the 22 years that I've received love and adoration from my family. In the 18 years (that I can remember) that I've had friends deeply love me and care for me. But especially in the last year, where I've been dragged back from the edges of an endless abyss by the people who stand by me no matter what. In the solidarity between classmates, colleagues, fellow singers in a choir. By the immense, endless quantities of love and patience and affection that are shared with me every single day, and the infinite love that sparks inside me, no matter how lost or empty I may feel.  
  
Can I measure my life in the immeasurable?  
  
What do you judge love by?  
I see no end to it, I see it everywhere.  
The nights someone stayed up with me and talked me down from the brink of whatever nightmare I was fighting.  
The little messages I get sent throughout the day.  
The frantic phonecalls that were always answered.  
The times someone would just say "hold on, I'm coming over."  
Hours spent just talking, or existing in the same space.  
Music and movies and food that was shared. Classes we sat through together. Board games and ski trips and heaps of breathless laughter.  
A smile from across the room. A hand on my shoulder, reminding me that I'm never alone.  
An emotion shared across thousands of miles, through a computer screen. A friend in my pocket, in another timezone, solidarity and combined joy.  
Jokes between siblings, with my parents, with my peers. Tears and screams that never fell on deaf ears.  
Excitement and enthusiasm. Companionship. Trust.  
A song, belted out at full volume by everyone in my car.  
A moment of silence, a memory, an idea that strikes simultaneously.  
A painting, a poem, a story that inspires.  
A conversation that sparks creativity.  
  
I know I'm not alone, and that's what keeps me going. I love, and I am loved. And that's what fuels my drive to improve, to keep fighting, to heal.


	13. Train

There’s something otherworldly, detached about sitting on a train and watching entire lives pass you by in seconds.

A row of houses with balconies and tiny back gardens, abandoned clothes lines and trampolines, tells a story too detailed to comprehend in the tiny glance you get of it as the train rolls by, there and gone, a moment, nothing more.

 

Impressions, really, and if you’ve learned how to see them, they’re almost too many and too fleeting to capture. It feels like you’re constantly missing something, like you’re playing catch with half a blindfold on and the world is moving too fast.

The brief glimpses of lives so different, so separate from your own - permanent in places that are transient to you, irrelevant, gone before you can leave more thought with them. Entire worlds passing you by, worlds you merely graze while other people are fully immersed in them. Bizzare.

 

I’ve been longing to accelerate - but now I’m overwhelmed. I’ve learned to appreciate going slowly, despite my general impatience, and being thrust from place to place this way is almost making me uncomfortable.

On the other hand, it’s beautiful. Small moments of sun breaking through clouds and onto rushing water, for instance, too quick for a camera to capture. Houses of all shapes and sizes, dashing past in quick succession. Wide empty fields, crowded squares, endless stretches of sky.

 

I notice how I’ve started collecting impressions - but these are too short to hold on to, reduced to what I remember as I’m writing this, with the world gone dark outside the compartment window. No chance to look twice, even when it’s light.

But I’m only just learning to look twice, and it’s never been clearer to me than right now, when I can’t. Slow down for me, let me observe, let me see.

 

I feel I’m becoming an observer of sorts - but not passive. I don’t think I could be. So, not objective. Not a passenger - I’m the driver in my own life. A subjective observer, then, who filters what she is able to process.

 

I feel like love - from family, from friends, and finally from myself - has slowed my world down for me, allowed me to find new perspectives. Being jerked out of the speed I’d gotten used to is strange, but maybe not entirely unwelcome. Necessary, perhaps, to reclaim perspective for what it is: temporary.

As is everything, no matter how much we crave stability.

But: It is a much more reliable thing, stability, when it comes from within.


	14. something that stays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts, thoughts, thoughts - a mess of thoughts

I will always have more love than people want to receive.  
Always the girl who is "too much", too loud, too fast, too demanding.  
I want everything - attention, affection, respect, information... but also space, calm, peace. Closure.  
I'm unpredictable as hell, moody, loud, restless, frustrated.  
Never, never ever satisfied - and that's not a good match for anyone, because while I can't be balanced, I'd always want other people to be. Predictable. Safe.  
I'm not fair.  
  
The thing is though? I don't think I can change it. Because I have tried to be something else. I have tried to be quieter, kinder, more softspoken, more patient. I've tried to be submissive, tried to force myself to rest, to wait, to behave. I tried to hold back, to match other people's speed and emotion and interest.  
And I hated it.  
I can be all of these things - quiet, kind, patient, reserved - but I want to be them on my terms, and mine alone. I don't want to be silent when I feel like I'd condone injustice. I don't want to be them because it's what people expect, because I will be judged if I'm different, if I'm not the girl people imagine me to be. Because I take people by surprise. Because I command attention, emotion, interest. Because I demand to be heard. Because I'm open and loud about my feelings, my hopes, my fears.  
  
And you know, I feel more powerful, since I've made this decision. My life, my terms. Mine.  
I know I'm arrogant, because I think I know best. I do - for myself. (Is that arrogance, then? Or confidence? The difference is so hard to tell.)  
I'm tired of feeling tired and restless and frustrated. The only way I can stop feeling that way is if I take charge.  
  
I don't believe in destiny - but I do want something more from this life.  
I've been waiting, healing. Building a base for the rest of my existence, something stable, something strong. Now I'm getting close to completing it - and it's time to decide where I want myself to go.  
  
I don't have plans. But I do have goals.  
I want to do something huge. I want to create something amazing.  
Something that can hold all the conflicting, powerful, endless emotions I feel.  
I want to build something that will outlive me.   
Something to be remembered for.  
Something incredible.  
Something invincible.


	15. On apathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm... tired.

For the last couple of weeks, nothing has really mattered.

I'm told it's not atypical for someone with depression to experience bouts of apathy, of emptiness.

Truthfully, I've had them on and off for my entire life, I just never recognized them as such. Lack of enthusiasm, motivation, drive - very strange for me personally, as a bubbly and, well, energetic person.

I'd always wonder what was wrong. If I was getting sick, if something had happened to set it off. I could never really place it, but managed to somehow explain it away.

I mean, sometimes the answer really is "there are days like that."

Sometimes the answer was "it's puberty."

Sometimes the answer is "it's menstrual."

...and sometimes the answer is depression.

The thing is though, I can't tell the instances apart at all. So it's always trial and error, trying to find the cause.

Somehow I keep doing that, no matter what the issue is - try to find the cause rather than fight off symptoms. Maybe because I'm tired of fighting off symptoms, that's like swatting at individual ants while ignoring an entire anthill in your kitchen drawer. Sometimes you have to eliminate the cause before you can deal with the symptoms.

But what if you just can't find where the ants are coming from? What if they're coming from several places at once? What if there's also a wasp's nest in your kitchen?

I don't know where I'm going with this, except that... all the swatting I've been doing has me really, really exhausted.

I guess sleeping it off doesn't really work here though - ants and wasps rarely just leave by themselves.

(Or maybe they will, given the right incentive. I don't know, this metaphor is a little shaky.)

In any case - I'm tired. Even equipped with medication and therapy, I'm so incredibly tired. Maybe that's also where the apathy comes from. Work doesn't help get me back in the flow, and not working isn't helpful either, because that leaves more time to waste staring at the fires I can't put out. I'm still waiting, or so it seems, for The Solution to present itself.

Maybe there isn't one though. Maybe I just have to face each problem one by one, and make sure to get rid of them for good.


	16. Activate Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the general lack of writing. I'm doing my best, but I can't force it.

I’m increasingly coming across things that make me feel a peculiar mix of small, but hopeful. It’s a very specific emotion, and hard to describe. It’s an awareness of your immediate insignificance in the face of the universe, but at the same time it’s full of a striving to be great, of wanting to subvert expectations and  _ rise. _

It happens at the strangest times.

Sometimes it’s predictable - like when you’re at the peak of a mountain, looking down at the world below, and the wind tugs at your hair and clothes, urging you to fly. (Of course you don’t, not really. But being so high up makes me feel free, and the speed of skiing down gives me all the exhilaration that I need, that I crave. It _ satisfies _ me.)

Sometimes it’s triggered by something someone says, a passing remark, a piece of perspective handed to you on a silver platter, elevating you above your everyday life with clarity.

Sometimes it’s a song that fills you with a strange, melancholy-yet-restless feeling, a hope that’s inextinguishable no matter the circumstances, no matter how dark it gets, or how cold, or how lonely. Not a hand reaching out to pull you up, but a companion in your bottomless hole, a friend, an ally. Alongside you, not above. Also waiting. Hoping.

Recently I’ve been losing sight of myself, like running through the dark indefinitely, like screaming into a void that you know is not empty, but still not hearing a reply. Like wanting to believe what you do is not meaningless, and yet being afraid to try for fear of being proven wrong.

Because… I refuse to believe that it is wrong to hope, but what if my hopes are unrealistic? Am I stable enough to handle rejection, or will it send me spiraling (as it has done before)? Am I realistic enough with my idealism? Are my dreams fulfillable? Or futile?

All this waiting and hoping is fueling my fire. I can feel it building again, an energy, a pulse ready to ignite. But I don’t know where to go.

For now I am gathering strength (to get out of bed, to leave the house, to  _ live _ ), but to what end? Where am I going? Who am I becoming? I want to be great, but how?

It’s not painful, not anymore. I’m exhausted, but not disheartened.

And one of my old fears is back.

I used to be afraid of being left behind. All this waiting had me antsy, but I learned, quickly and surely, that my friends and family would not leave me. That they are a net that will always catch me with patience, kindness and understanding. That they’ve been teaching me to be a better person- 

However.

Once I get my energy back, will I revert to who I was - a bulldozer, and unstoppable freight train, tearing through the unknown without brakes-

Someone who leaves people behind.

I have been slow, I have learned to not hate myself for it. But when I have my energy back - and I feel it, I feel it building - will I remember how to hold back? How to not go where no one can follow?

I don’t want to leave my support behind. But I am also _ so _ tired of waiting. I have a life ahead of me that I intend to live out loud. But when I’m loud, I’m deafening, so who will I hurt? Who will I abandon, because it’s a pain to keep explaining who I am and how I work?

I’m changing so fast that I can barely keep up with myself - so what happens when others can’t? The people I love, the people I cherish?

I am not a fearful person. I worry, yes, but I’m not afraid. Nervous, yes, but not terrified. Excited. Anticipating.

I hope I won’t blaze without looking back - even though I want to. I need acceleration, adrenaline,  _ change. _ Where to? No idea. Just go. Now. Run. Do. Scream. Sing. Jump.  _ Go. _

I’m so tired of who I’ve become, and there is no going back, because in life you keep learning, and you’re changing every day with new experiences.

I’m tired of charging. I want to get up and go.

I just don’t know where, and I don’t know how. I tried to figure it out, but I’m impatient and irascible and I need to  _ run. _

I hope they’ll keep up. I hope they won’t hate the way I’m changing. I hope they’ll love who I’ll become, just as they love me now. I hope their patience and compassion lasts, and is attached to the essence of who I am, not brief characteristics I’ve shown, in illness and otherwise.

Don’t let me run too far. Grab the back of my hoodie and follow me.


	17. The Critic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you know that disoriented feeling you get after finishing an unsatisfying book?

[an essay]

 

Do you know that disoriented feeling you get after finishing an unsatisfying book?

Like – there’s a difference between that and the empty, hollow feeling that comes after finishing a _good_ book, because that is accompanied by a certain satisfaction, right? No matter how sad you are that it is over, it was still a good story, one that stuck with you and, if it was really good, changed your mind or broadened your perspective.

Even finishing an objectively bad book is not so awful – at least it’s over, right? And you might have gotten some form of humorous half-enjoyment from it.

But finishing a mediocre book is terrible. You turn the last page and you think _…that’s it? Seriously_?

And then you get up from your chair, or bed, or couch, and you’re so… lost? Your head is still with the characters, but not because you bonded with them – it’s because you don’t _get_ them. It’s like they’re only half-formed, and the pieces that you’re supposed to fill in as a reader are blank and disintegrating like it’s the end of Infinity War ( ~~too soon?~~ ) because the story failed to provide the missing pieces, and you couldn’t add your own because the whole story didn’t fit with your line of thinking at all. The characters exist on a separate plane that you can’t – or won’t – comprehend, they made choices you don’t – or can’t – understand, they’re unrelatable, and you can barely feel them but they’re still there, in your space, half-existing, haunting.

You know how some books leave out facts tastefully, leaving you guessing and wondering, but in a good way? Giving you creative freedom as a reader? Like how Harry Potter barely has descriptions, and Hogwarts came to life in our heads?

Yeah, and then there’s books that do it badly, and you’re left standing there with dust in your hands, all like “I don’t want these…?”

And then it takes a while to reorient yourself into your own narrative. You get up, you pace, you wash a few dishes, processing. Unlike with a good book though, this processing leads to more confusion rather than less. The more you think about it, the madder at yourself you get for even finishing the book because the ending was so disappointing, even though there was no way you could have known. You find yourself coming up with alternate (maybe expected, or incredibly unexpected) endings that would have suited you better, explanations that would change the book but make it more like you would want it, until a small voice in your head says “then go write your own story, if it’s so terrible? No one’s forcing you to read.”

Except of course it’s not easy to write. You know this yourself, from experience, and you shouldn’t be tearing apart a book that, for its writer, was an important work, right?

And then this little, spiteful voice in my head says “yeah, but it sucked though.”

And that, that little voice, is my motivator.

That little voice is why I write. Because there is a voice that tells me _“you could do this better,”_ even if, so far, I have little to show for it. I don’t know if it’s overconfident or arrogant or delusional, none of which would truly surprise me. I just know that I find myself reading (and re-reading) passages that irk me in other people’s work, find myself stumbling over phrasings and plot choices that scream at me, “I would do this differently, I would do this _better_.”

The more I read, the pickier I seem to become, the more I ruminate over choices that seem unfathomable for me, even though I have no idea of the author’s thought process. I have to assume everything in print is intentional, but if so, why, how, what made you think these were good ideas? A good idea is so entirely subjective.

Maybe this isn’t a bad thing, though, despite my lack of knowledge. Maybe that’s what conscious reading is. If anything, it just means the _books I recommend_ will become a more refined list as time goes on, and I will develop a more particular taste in writing.

Maybe I will reach a point where no one’s words can satisfy me – and maybe then I will start writing my own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me your thoughts!


	18. Oh, I'm so full of love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A poem.

Oh, I’m so full of love.

 

I have seen so much anger, loneliness, fear;

grief, frustration, and hate -

but something inside me’s unbreakable,

Unblinking, unyielding to fate.

 

Hope is my constant companion,

and love, the light guiding me home.

There’s color inside me, just waiting to burst,

no matter where darkness will roam

 

I was always a bit overwhelming -

driven, ambitious, and proud

bossy and vocal, determined

Dead set on living out loud

 

And though there’s been obstacles lately,

And life’s tried to drag me back down,

I know I’ll be back soon to fight it,

I’m positive I’ll never drown.

 

There is a light deep inside me,

Forever will be,

And it guides me to freedom

It helps me break free

 

Oh, I’m so full of love

And it’s bursting from me.

I’ll always keep fighting

 

This is my legacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been thinking lately, about how lucky I am.  
> If you're reading this, go spread some love.


	19. The sufferer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an old poem I found while going through my computer and felt like sharing :)

The sufferer

 

My love is my affliction

it buries through my bones

Grows weaker with addiction 

Won't catch me throwing stones

 

The more I think I can't let go,

the further down I've fallen

to love, it has to mean to know -

it means to trust.

That's  all, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to learn to let go.


	20. the day the rain stopped

My mom used to read us  _ Dr. Seuss _ poems when I was little. There was one I knew by heart, and I was proud of that, and I still remember it today:

 

_ The storm starts  _

_ When the drops start dropping _

_ When the drops stop dropping _

_ Then the storm starts stopping. _

 

Today was my last day on antidepressants.

I’m down to only taking sleeping aids and allergy medication now, which by my standards is nothing.

It feels less monumental than I expected it to be. Maybe because going on the antidepressants had such a significant effect on me - but going off has been a slow process of over a month and a half; gradually taking less and less, always testing the waters, seeing if I’ll fall back into The Dark without them.

And now I’m off - and I feel fine. I feel like… me. I feel normal.

 

Of course, my work is far from over. The next step is gradually coming off the sleeping aids, gradually going to fewer therapy sessions, gradually regaining my independence. Gradually working more, gradually assimilating back into society, going out, taking risks, making leaps, changing, growing.

 

I’m excited for what’s to come, looking out from under my umbrella into the crisp rays of new sun. I can’t wait to run out into them.

 

When the clouds break, I start breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support so far. I'm eternally grateful.


	21. Collateral Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things must end.  
> I'm ending one today.

I can talk, but you don’t listen.  
I can text, but you don’t read them.  
You don’t remember what you’re angry about. Or is only disappointment left? Is it resentment? Fear?  
I can wait for months without a single message from you, and only anger and impatience in the face of mine.  
I’ve stayed up till 5am just to talk to you - these things no longer bother me.

You told me you want to fix this.  
You show me nothing. You give me nothing.

I can regret all you think I’ve done to you.  
I can apologize for what I have, til my mouth goes dry and my tears fade, and start all over again. You don’t want to hear it.

I can despair about it.  
I have.  
I can let myself feel the sadness and hurt, the rage, regret and unfairness.  
I have.  
I can hurt myself that way, every day until I die.

But I won’t.

 

I refuse to be chained by this even now.  
I was wrong.  
I have changed.  
I have grown.

You’ll never know, and this will stop bothering me. Starting now.

I’ll be the villain in your story, since you so desperately want me to be.  
I’ll be the cautionary tale you tell your friends and family. I’ll be the one you warn others against. I’ll be the insecurity you carry on for years. I’ll be the demon under your bed, the monster in your closet, the subject of your nightmares.  
I will.  
I’m not looking back anymore.

Collateral damage.

Let this be my fury.


	22. An excercise in superlatives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been attending a writing workshop - and I wrote this during our session today, in 30 minutes of allotted writing time, for the prompt "I'm never doing that again".  
> I really liked what came of it, so have this for now! I feel like Big Changes are coming, so there might be more writing about figuring myself out. We'll see ^^

For a person who puts so much value on words, it’s shocking how often I don’t mean them. And it’s not even really intentional, you know? It just sort of happened.

Growing up, I was always told that I talk too much. Thinking out loud made sense to me, because I was rewarded for knowing the right methods. I was studious, smart, bright, interested - but too loud, always too loud.  _ Let the other kids have a turn, too! _ But everything I felt was so intense! So how was I going to get people to listen?

I was hoarse every other week from arguments at the family dinner table, trying to get myself heard above the opinions, the teasing, the jokes of five other people. But at what cost? No talking for the rest of the week? Maybe volume isn’t the answer.

So I did what felt natural: I made the hyperbole mine.

“I had a bad day” - okay, so does everyone else. But starting with “This was the  _ worst day of my life” _ will get everyone’s heads snapping in your direction.

But… what if the story doesn’t hold up?

Slowly, my words started losing impact. People got used to my way of speaking, their attention started to slip. So I’d read newspapers, novels, poetry, looking for new words to spice up my vocabulary. I’m no longer upset, I’m irascible and volatile. I’m not angry, I’m frustrated and restless. I became an emotional dictionary - and feelings only seem stronger when you’ve found the words for them.

I found myself often giving advice, reflected and eloquent, but way too often, I could tell I was being overwhelming to the person I was talking to.

I felt stories growing inside me at every turn, and the need to lift them up over the mundane, like an endless race for - well, everything. Something had to be done.

I still talk a lot, but my teenage exuberance has waned. I’ve learned to take breaks, even when my brain screams “run, go, do!” I’m learning to harness my energy, to channel for something productive.

I’ve learned that not every accident is a catastrophe, not every inconvenience means “I’m  _ never _ doing that again”. But I also learned that in telling stories, it sometimes pays off to exaggerate. Big changes mean big emotions! And life is way more fun when you view it as an adventure - a story that’s waiting to be told.


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